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THE  FAED  GALLERY. 


THE 


FAED  GALLERY 


A SERIES  OF  THE  MOST  RENOWNED  WORKS  OF  THOMAS  FAED, 

REPRODUCED  IN  HELIOTYPE 


WITH 


FULL  DESCRIPTIONS,  AND  A SKETCH  OF  THE  LIFE  OE  THE  ARTIST 


BOSTON 

JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  AND  COMPANY, 

(Late  Tickxor  & Fields,  and  Fields,  Osgood,  & Co.) 

1878 


THOMAS  FAED. 


HOMAS  FAED,  the  most  eminent  living  artist  of  the  school  of  which  Wilkie 
is  the  representative,  was  born  at  Burley  Mill,  in  the  picturesque  stewartry 
of  Kirkcudbright,  in  Scotland,  in  the  year  1826.  His  father,  who  was  an 
able  mechanician,  though  he  had  little  opportunity  of  developing  his  talents 
in  that  direction,  there  carried  on  business  as  an  engineer  and  millwright.  The  beauty 
of  the  scenery  surrounding  his  home,  and  the  interesting  subjects  for  an  artist  with  which 
the  neighborhood  abounded,  soon  caught  the  boy’s  attention.  In  the  summer  months,  when 
the  mill  was  idle,  and  there  was  no  grain  preparing  in  the  kiln,  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
converting  the  smoke-begrimed  apartment  into  a studio,  where,  like  a second  Rembrandt, 
with  a fair  top-light  and  a dark  background,  he  painted  diligently,  using  as  models  the 
ragged  boys  who  lived  in  the  rustic  world  around  him.  His  father  died  when  the  young 
artist  was  yet  in  his  boyhood  ; but  his  elder  brother,  John,  had  already,  after  a severe 
struggle  against  early  discouragements,  attained  eminence  as  a painter  in  Edinburgh,  and 
was  in  a position  that  enabled  him  to  be  an  invaluable  friend  and  counsellor  to  his 
young  brother.  Recognizing  the  dawning  talent  of  Thomas,  he  invited  him  in  1843  to 
become  a member  of  his  household,  and  for  some  years  he  carefully  fostered  and  en- 
couraged the  gilts  which  were  to  him  so  apparent ; and  never  was  fraternal  love  more 
happily  displayed  or  better  rewarded.  The  young  aspirant  assiduously  pursued  his  studies 
in  the  Edinburgh  School  of  Design  under  the  tuition  of  Sir  William  Allan,  and  was  a 
successful  competitor  for  many  of  the  prizes  annually  awarded  in  various  departments. 
The  earliest  work  he  ventured  to  exhibit  in  public  was  a drawing  in  water-colors,  “The 
Old  English  Baron  ; ” but  he  soon  abandoned  this  branch  of  art,  and  devoted  himself  to 
oil-painting.  He  advanced  in  his  profession  so  rapidly,  that  in  1849,  when  only  in  his 
twenty-third  year,  he  was  made  an  Associate  of  the  Royal  Scottish  Academy.  One  of 
the  works  painted  at  this  period  of  his  life  — “Sir  Walter  Scott  and  his  Friends  at 
Abbotsford  ” — has  become  widely  known  through  the  engraving  from  it. 


2 


Thomas  Faed. 


While  still  living  in  Edinburgh,  Mr.  Faed,  in  1851,  first  became  an  exhibiter  at  the 
London  Royal  Academy,  sending  three  pictures,  “ Cottage  Piety,”  “ The  First  Step,”  and 
“My  Father  urged  Me  Sair,”  from  Auld  Robin  Gray.  In  1852  he  permanently  took  up 
his  residence  in  London,  and  that  year  exhibited  “ Burns  and  Highland  Mary,”  and  “ The 
Visit  of  the  Patron  and  Patroness  to  the  Village  School.”  In  1853  he  painted  “Evan- 
geline,” one  of  the  best  known  and  most  popular  of  his  works.  This  year  there  appeared 
at  the  Academy  “The  Early  Lesson,”  and  “Sophia  and  Olivia;”  the  latter  very  graceful 
in  composition,  and  painted  with  the  nicest  finish.  In  the  following  year  he  contributed  to 
the  Exhibition  “ Morning,  — Reapers  Going  Out,”  and  “ Peggy,”  from  Allan  Ramsay’s 
Gentle  Shepherd.  In  the  year  1855  Mr.  Faed  achieved  his  first  great  success  in  the  pic- 
ture of  “ The  Mitherless  Bairn and  from  that  year  may  be  dated  the  ever-growing 
popularity  which  he  has  since  enjoyed.  It  is  said  that  this  work  ran  a narrow  risk  of 
rejection  by  the  hanging  committee  of  the  Royal  Academy,  and  that  it  only  obtained  a 
low  and  unfavorable  place,  below  the  line,  in  consequence  of  the  wise  insistence  of  a 
single  member.  But  the  public  showed  a truer  appreciation  of  his  merits.  It  at  once 
commanded  the  attention  of  the  majority  of  the  critics,  who  gave  it  a very  high  place 
among  the  “ pictures  of  the  season  ; ” although  Mr.  Ruskin,  in  his  “ Art-Notes  ” of  the 
year,  declared  that  the  work  was  “throughout  the  most  commonplace  ‘ Wilkieism,’  — white 
spots  everywhere.”  Mr.  Faed  also  exhibited  this  year  two  less  important  works,  “ Children 
Going  to  Market,”  and  “ From  Our  Own  Correspondent.”  In  the  year  1856  he  painted 
for  Lady  Burdett-Coutts  a pendant  to  “ The  Mitherless  Bairn,”  the  almost  equally  admi- 
rable “ Home  and  the  Homeless.”  “Highland  Mary”  was  also  in  the  Academy  this  year, 
and  “Conquered  but  not  Subdued”  was  exhibited  in  the  Glasgow  Art-Union.  His  only 
contribution  in  1S57,  “The  First  Break  in  the  Family,”  still  further  increased  his  fame. 
In  the  year  following,  Mr.  Faed  exhibited  four  works,  “The  Sunbeams,”  “The  Welcome,” 
“The  Ayrshire  Lassie,”  and  “A  Listener  Ne’er  Hears  Gude  o’  Himsel’.”  The  latter  work 
is  full  of  humorous  suggestions.  The  listener,  a rather  elderly  widower,  had  written  to  his 
sweet-heart  a letter,  “ saft,  couthie,  and  slee  ; ” and  was  now  on  the  point  of  paying  her  a 
visit,  carrying  with  him  a present  of  the  “ brawest  cheap  shawl  ” he  could  find.  He 
stands  in  the  doorway ; and  the  scene  that  meets  his  gaze  is  best  described  in  the  words 
of  the  poet  Ballantine,  who  wrote  them  on  first  seeing  the  picture : — 

“ There  sat  my  braw  Joe  wi’  young  Colin  Dalzell, 

An’  his  glaiket  sister,  wha  tongue’s  like  a bell, 

A -gigglin’,  an’  ettling  my  letter  to  spell : 

A listener  ne’er  hears  gude  o’  himsel’.” 

In  vigor  of  execution  and  dramatic  force,  this  picture  surpassed  any  thing  that  Mr.  Faed 
had  as  yet  done. 


Thomas  Faed. 


o 


“Sunday  in  the  Backwoods”  was  exhibited  in  1859.  The  subject  was  suggested  to 
the  artist  by  the  letter  of  an  emigrant,  giving  an  account  of  the  new  life  and  of  himself 
and  his  family,  and  saying  that  the  only  drawback  to  their  contentment  with  their  lot  was 
the  illness  of  poor  Jeanie.  The  scene  is  in  the  Canadian  backwoods,  and  shows  the 
emigrant  household  gathered  in  front  of  their  log-cabin  around  the  father,  who  is  reading 
the  Bible  to  them.  There  are  eleven  figures  in  the  group,  — one  of  them  a girl  sitting 
in  an  arm-chair,  propped  with  pillows,  and  her  fair  face  hectic  with  the  deadly  bloom  of 
consumption.  She  is  listening  with  a most  touching  look  of  sadness,  yet  of  resignation, 
in  her  fever-bright  eyes.  The  expressions  of  all  the  faces  are  admirable  ; but  especially 
so  is  the  grave,  shrewd  dignity  of  the  pioneer  father,  and  the  fading  beauty  of  the  dying 
girl.  It  is  a work  of  the  rarest  excellence  of  its  kind,  and  is  one  of  the  most  noteworthy 
productions  of  the  artist.  In  i860  was  exhibited  “His  Only  Pair,”  — a delightful  bit  of 
humor,  representing  a mother  engaged  in  the  interminable  task  of  mending  what  looks 
like  a hopelessly  ragged  pair  of  trousers,  the  youthful  proprietor  of  which  sits  bare-legged 
and  impatient  on  the  table. 

In  1861  Mr.  Faed  was  elected  an  Associate  of  the  Royal  Academy;  and  he,  this  year, 

exhibited  his  oreat  work,  “ From  Dawn  to  Sunset.”  His  contributions  in  1862  were 

“Kate  Nickleby,”  “A  Flower  from  Paddy’s  Land,”  — both  of  them  single  figures,  — and 

“ War  News  to  an  Old  Soldier.”  With  these  the  artist  sent  the  only  portrait  he  has  ever 

exhibited,  — an  admirable  one  of  the  son  of  Mr.  Hepworth  Dixon.  The  next  year  he 

sent  three  pictures,  — “Train  up  a Child,”  “The  Irish  Orange-Girl,”  and  “The  Silken 

Gown  ; ” the  latter  illustrative  of  the  Scottish  sonm  “ An  Ye  shall  walk  in  Silk  Attirel' 

<_> 

“ Baith  Faither  and  Mither  ” and  “Our  Washing  Day”  were  exhibited  in  1864;  the  latter 
work  showing  some  buxom  lassies  chatting  and  laughing  over  their  wash-tubs.  This  year 
Mr.  Faed  was  elected  a Royal  Academician.  He  is  also  an  honorary  member  of  the 
Scottish  Royal  Academy. 

“The  Last  ol  the  Clan”  was  exhibited  in  1865  ; and  the  next  year  appeared  “Pot- 
Luck  ” and  “ Ere  Care  Begins ; ” the  last-mentioned  being  his  diploma-picture,  — a work 
which  all  members  of  the  Academy  must  present  to  the  body  on  being  elected  one  ot 
their  number.  Of  this  picture  Mr.  Palgrave  said,  in  his  review  of  the  exhibition  of  the 
year,  “Mr.  I homas  Faed’s  simple  mother  and  child  is  what  ‘diploma-work’  should  be, — 
a choice  example  of  the  artist’s  style.  Nature  surely  comes  closest  to  the  heart  when 
least  adorned.  I here  is  a pathos  in  the  pictures  of  the  Scotch  school,  like  that  in  the 
poems  of  Burns.”  “The  Poor,  the  Poor  Man’s  Friend,”  was  exhibited  in  1867  ; and 
“Worn  Out,”  “The  Flower  o’  Dunblane,”  and  “The  Cradle,”  in  1868.  The  year  following 
he  sent  five  pictures,  — the  largest  number  he  has  ever  exhibited  at  one  time, — “Faults 
on  Both  Sides,”  “ Homeless,”  “ Letting  the  Cows  into  the  Corn,”  “ Donald  M'Tavish,” 


4 


Thomas  Faed. 


and  “Only  Herself,” — all  homely  subjects,  treated  with  consummate  art  and  the  truest 
pathos.  The  last-named  picture  — one  of  the  most  touching  of  the  artist’s  works — shows 
a lonely  old  woman,  with  a heavily-laden  basket,  resting  at  the  foot  of  a rude  stile.  Her 
worn  face  and  resigned  action  tell  their  own  story  as  completely  as  a volume  might.  In 
1870  appeared  “When  the  Day  is  Gone”  and  “The  Highland  Mother,”  and  in  1871  “A 
Wee  Bit  Fractious.”  The  next  year  was  exhibited  “God’s  Acre,”  and  in  1873  “Happy 
as  the  Day  is  Long,”  “ A Lowland  Lassie,”  and  “ A Skye  Lassie.”  Three  works  were  in 
the  exhibition  of  1874, — “Violets  and  Primroses,”  “The  Sailor’s  Wife,”  and  “Forgiven;” 
the  last,  perhaps,  the  greatest  of  Mr.  Faed’s  recent  pictures.  He  did  not  appear  amongst 
the  exhibiters  in  1875;  but  the  next  year  he  contributed  “Morning”  and  “She  Never 
told  Her  Love;”  and  in  1S77  “Little  Cold  Tooties,”  “A  Runaway  Horse,”  and  “In 
Time  of  War.”  These  later  pictures,  like  the  artist’s  earlier  works,  have  as  their  subjects 
domestic  incidents  in  rustic  and  humble  life,  and  show  the  same  vigorous  execution,  har- 
monious coloring,  masterly  delineation  of  character,  and  unaffected  pathos. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

I.  Evangeline  .............  7 

II.  Highland  Mary  ............  11 

III.  Home  and  the  Homeless  . . . . . . . . . 15 

IV.  The  Mitherless  Bairn  ..........  17 

V.  From  Dawn  to  Sunset  . . . . . . . . . . .21 

VI.  The  Last  of  the  Clan  ..........  23 

VII.  War  News  to  an  Old  Soldier  .........  25 

VIII.  The  Poor,  the  Poor  Man’s  Friend  . . . . . . . . 27 

IX.  My  Ain  Fireside  ............  29 

X.  Erin,  Farewell!  ............  33 

XI.  The  First  Break  in  the  Family  . . . . . ...  . -35 

XII.  The  Reaper.  ............  37 

XIII.  Sunday  Afternoon  ............  41 

XIV.  Train  up  a Child  ...........  45 

XV.  Baith  Faither  and  Mitiier  ..........  47 

XVI.  Music  hath  Charms  ...........  49 

XVII.  The  Offer 51 

XVIII.  Accepted  .............  53 

XIX.  Happy  as  the  Day  is  Long 55 

XX.  A Wee  Bit  Fractious  ..........  57 

XXI.  The  Miller’s  Daughter  ...........  59 

XXII.  Faults  on  Both  Sides  63 

XXIII.  The  Orange-Girl  . . . . . . . . . . . -65 

XXIV.  Worn  Out  . ............  67 


5 


EVANGELINE. 


HIS  picture,  which  has  been  repeatedly  engraved,  has  most  deservedly  attained 
a wider  popularity  than  any  other  of  the  artist’s  smaller  works.  The  heroine 
of  Mr.  Longfellow’s  exquisite  poem  is  resting  for  a moment  by  some  “ name- 
less grave  ” in  a strange  churchyard. 


Many  a weary  year  had  passed  since  the  burning  of  Grand-Pre, 

When  on  the  falling  tide  the  freighted  vessels  departed, 

Bearing  a nation,  with  all  its  household  gods,  into  exile,  — 

Exile  without  an  end,  and  without  an  example  in  story. 

Far  asunder,  on  separate  coasts,  the  Acadians  landed  : 

Scattered  were  they  like  flakes  of  snow  when  the  wind  from  the  north-east 
Strikes  aslant  through  the  fogs  that  darken  the  Banks  of  Newfoundland. 
Friendless,  homeless,  hopeless,  they  wandered  from  city  to  city, 

From  the  cold  lakes  of  the  North  to  sultry  Southern  savannas ; 

From  the  bleak  shores  of  the  sea  to  the  lands  where  the  Father  of  Waters 
Seizes  the  hills  in  his  hands,  and  drags  them  down  to  the  ocean, 

Deep  in  their  sands  to  bury  the  scattered  bones  of  the  mammoth. 

Friends  they  sought,  and  homes ; and  many,  despairing,  heart-broken, 

Asked  of  the  earth  but  a grave,  and  no  longer  a friend  nor  a fireside. 
Written  their  history  stands  on  tablets  of  stone  in  the  churchyards. 

Long  among  them  was  seen  a maiden  who  waited  and  wandered, 

Lowly  and  meek  in  spirit,  and  patiently  suffering  all  things. 

Fair  was  she,  and  young ; but,  alas  ! before  her  extended, 

Dreary  and  vast  and  silent,  the  desert  of  life,  with  its  pathway 

Marked  by  the  graves  of  those  who  had  sorrowed  and  suffered  before  her, 

Passions  long  extinguished,  and  hopes  long  dead  and  abandoned, 

As  the  emigrant’s  way  o’er  the  Western  desert  is  marked  by 
Camp-fires  long  consumed,  and  bones  that  bleach  in  the  sunshine. 


7 


Evangeline. 

Something  there  was  in  her  life  incomplete,  imperfect,  unfinished ; 

As  if  a morning  of  June,  with  all  its  music  and  sunshine, 

Suddenly  paused  in  the  sky,  and,  fading,  slowly  descended 
Into  the  east  again,  from  whence  it  late  had  arisen. 

Sometimes  she  lingered  in  towns,  till  urged  by  the  fever  within  her, 

Urged  by  a restless  longing,  the  hunger  and  thirst  of  the  spirit, 

She  would  commence  again  her  endless  search  and  endeavor : 

Sometimes  in  churchyards  strayed,  and  gazed  on  the  crosses  and  tombstones 
Sat  by  some  nameless  grave,  and  thought  that  perhaps  in  its  bosom 
He  was  already  at  rest,  and  she  longed  to  slumber  beside  him. 

Sometimes  a rumor,  a hearsay,  an  inarticulate  whisper, 

Came  with  its  airy  hand  to  point  and  beckon  her  forward. 

Sometimes  she  spake  with  those  who  had  seen  her  beloved  and  known  him  ; 
But  it  was  long  ago,  in  some  far-off  place  or  forgotten. 

Then  would  they  say,  “ Dear  child  ! why  dream  and  wait  for  him  longer  ? 

Are  there  not  other  youths  as  fair  as  Gabriel?  others 
Who  have  hearts  as  tender  and  true,  and  spirits  as  loyal?” 

Then  would  Evangeline  answer,  serenely  but  sadly,  “ I cannot ! 

Whither  my  heart  has  gone,  there  follows  my  hand,  and  not  elsewhere ; 

For  whe;n  the  heart  goes  before,  like  a lamp,  and  illumines  the  pathway, 
Many  things  are  made  clear  that  else  lie  hidden  in  darkness.” 

Thereupon  the  priest,  her  friend  and  father- confessor, 

Said  with  a smile,  “ O daughter  ! thy  God  thus  speaketh  within  thee  ! 

Talk  not  of  wasted  affection  : affection  never  was  wasted : 

If  it  enrich  not  the  heart  of  another,  its  waters,  returning 

Back  to  their  springs,  like  the  rain,  shall  fill  them  full  of  refreshment : 

That  which  the  fountain  sends  forth  returns  again  to  the  fountain. 

Patience ; accomplish  thy  labor ; accomplish  thy  work  of  affection. 

Sorrow  and  silence  are  strong,  and  patient  endurance  is  godlike. 

Therefore  accomplish  thy  labor  of  love,  till  the  heart  is  made  godlike, 
Purified,  strengthened,  perfected,  and  rendered  more  worthy  of  heaven.” 
Cheered  by  the  good  man’s  words,  Evangeline  labored  and  waited. 

Still  in  her  heart  she  heard  the  funeral  dirge  of  the  ocean  ; 

But  with  its  sound  there  was  mingled  a voice  that  whispered,  “ Despair  not ! 
Thus  did  that  poor  soul  wander  in  want  and  cheerless  discomfort, 

Bleeding,  barefooted,  over  the  shards  and  thorns  of  existence. 


HIGHLAND  MARY. 

Y far  the  most  interesting  of  the  rustic  beauties  whom  the  genius  of  Burns 
has  immortalized  is  Mary  Campbell,  the  object  of  the  deepest  passion  of 
his  life,  and  the  inspirer  of  some  of  the  loveliest  songs  he  ever  wrote.  His 
acquaintance  with  her  began  when  he  was  in  his  twenty-third  year,  and 
while  he  was  living  at  Mossgiel  with  his  brother.  She  was  at  that  time  a servant  in  the 
family  of  a gentleman  in  the  neighborhood.  They  solemnly  pledged  themselves  to  each 
other.  “We  met,”  says  Burns,  “by  appointment,  on  the  second  Sunday  in  May,  in  a 
sequestered  spot  by  the  banks  of  the  Ayr,  where  we  spent  a day  in  taking  a farewell 
before  she  should  embark  for  the  West  Highlands  to  arrange  matters  among-  her  friends 
for  our  projected  change  of  life.”  Their  farewell  was  accompanied  by  all  the  simple  cere- 
monials common  among  the  country-folk  on  such  occasions.  The  lovers,  standing  on  each 
side  of  a small  brook,  laved  their  hands  in  the  stream,  and,  holding  a Bible  between 
them,  vowed  to  be  faithful  to  each  other.  This  Bible  is  now  preserved  at  Alloway  with 
other  relics  of  Burns ; and  to  one  of  the  covers  is  fastened  a lock  of  Highland  Mary’s 
golden  hair.  Within  are  inscribed  verses  of  Scripture  relating  to  the  sacredness  of  vows, 
in  the  poet’s  handwriting. 

The  artist,  with  exquisite  grace  and  tenderness,  has  depicted  Highland  Mary  as  rest- 
ing  by  the  roadside  on  her  journey  to  her  home.  Shortly  after  her  arrival  there,  various 
mischances  made  Burns  for  a while  think  or  seeking  his  fortune  in  the  West  Indies.  It 
was  then  that  he  wrote  the  song,  “Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  my  Mary?”  It  was  but  a 
few  months  after  their  parting  on  the  banks  of  the  Ayr  that  Mary  Campbell  left  Inver- 
ary to  meet  her  lover,  to  take  leave  of  him  before  his  proposed  departure.  But  on  the 
journey  she  was  seized  with  a fever,  and  died  in  a few  days ; the  tidings  of  her  death 
reaching  Burns  before  he  had  even  heard  of  her  illness.  How  passionate  was  his  griei 
at  this  loss,  and  how  lasting  his  memory  of  his  early  love,  is  known  to  every  one.  Three 


Highland  Mary. 

years  after  her  death  he  wrote  the  exquisite  elegy,  “ To  Mary  in  Heaven ; ” and, 
years  later,  the  song  of  “ Highland  Mary.” 

Ye  banks  and  braes  and  streams  around 
The  castle  o’  Montgomery, 

Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flowers, 

Your  waters  never  drumlie  ! 

There  Simmer  first  unfauld  her  robes, 

And  there  the  langest  tarry  ! 

For  there  I took  the  last  fareweel 
O’  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

How  sweetly  bloomed  the  gay  green  birk, 

How  rich  the  hawthorn’s  blossom, 

As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade 
I clasped  her  to  my  bosom  ! 

The  golden  hours,  on  angel  wings, 

Flew  o’er  me  and  my  dearie ; 

For  dear  to  me  as  light  and  life 
Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

Wi’  monie  a vow  and  locked  embrace, 

Our  parting  was  fu’  tender; 

And,  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

We  tore  oursel’s  asunder. 

But  oh  fell  Death’s  untimely  frost 
That  nipt  my  flower  sae  early  ! 

Now  green’s  the  sod  and  cauld’s  the  clay 
That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary  ! 

O pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips 
I aft  hae  kissed  sae  fondly. 

And  closed  for  aye  the  sparkling  glance 
That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly  ! 

And  mouldering  now  in  silent  dust 
That  heart  that  lo’ed  me  dearly  ! 

But  still  within  my  bosom’s  core 
Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 


13 

some 


HOME  AND  THE  HOMELESS. 


HESE  two  histories — one  of  domestic  happiness,  the  other  of  abject  misery 
— the  artist  describes  in  these  passages  from  Burns  and  Wordsworth. 

For  the  first  : — 


“ His  wee  bit  ingle,  blinkin’  bonnily, 

His  clane  hearth-stane,  his  thriftie  wifie’s  smile, 
The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee, 

Does  a’  his  weary,  carking  cares  beguile, 

An’  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labor  an’  his  toil.” 


And  for  the  last : — 


“ But  for  her  babe, 

And  for  her  little  orphan-boy,  she  said, 

She  had  no  wish  to  live ; that  she  must  die 
Of  sorrow.” 


We  see  the  inside  of  a Scottish  laborer’s  cottage.  The  cotter,  his  work  for  the  day 
done,  is  playing  with  his  youngest  child,  whom  he  is  coaxing  with  an  apple.  The  wife, 
who  is  placing  on  the  table 

“The  halesome  parritch,  chief  o’  Scotia’s  food,” 

watches  the  pair  with  delighted  eyes.  In  contrast  to  this  is  the  wretched  woman  shrink- 
ing in  the  farther  corner  of  the  room  with  her  two  children,  one  of  whom,  in  utter  weari- 
ness, has  fallen  asleep ; while  the  other  creeps  up  to  the  table,  and  with  a half  afraid, 
half-deprecating  air,  looks  wistfully  at  the  porridge.  The  picture  is  worthy  of  Wilkie,  with- 
out being  in  the  least  degree  an  imitation  of  him.  Especially  admirable  is  the  rendition 
of  the  glee  of  the  father,  and  the  innocent,  thoughtless  heedlessness  of  the  child  on  his 
lap. 

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THE  MITHERLESS  BAIRN. 


HOUGH  the  artist  takes  his  theme  from  the  well-known  poem  of. William 
Thom,  he  has  worked  it  up  with  wonderful  power,  giving  to  the  lines  a 
reading  as  forcible  as  it  is  pathetic.  The  wandering  orphan-boy  has  come 
in  at  an  open  cottage-door,  and  stands  with  mutely-imploring  looks  before 
its  inmates.  In  strong  contrast  to  the  sad-faced,  weary  child,  with  his  air  of  utter  friend- 
lessness and  destitution,  is  the  ruddy,  vigorous  health  of  the  children  of  the  family,  and 
the  rude  comfort  with  which  they  are  surrounded.  The  sturdy  boy,  his  hands  thrust  in 
his  pockets,  surveys  the  poor  little  stranger  with  good-natured  wonderment ; while  his 
pretty  sister  would  at  once  answer  the  orphan’s  appeal  by  offering  him  the  bread  she 
holds  in  her  hand,  if  the  grandmother,  a canny  and  careful  old  dame,  did  not  hold  her 
back  till  she  has  had  some  talk  with  the  little  suppliant.  The  mother  looks  on  tenderly 
and  compassionately.  Indeed,  the  story  is  admirably  told  throughout ; and  there  is  little 
difficulty  in  reading  the  thoughts  of  the  family  group  as  their  attention  is  arrested  by  the 
poor  little  intruder. 

When  a’  ither  bairnies  are  hushed  to  their  hame 
By  aunty  or  cousin  or  frecky  grand-dame, 

Wha  stands  last  an’  lanely,  an’  sairly  forfairn? 

’Tis  the  puir  dowie  laddie,  — the  mitherless  bairn  ! 

The  mitherless  bairnie  creeps  to  his  lane  bed ; 

Nane  covers  his  cauld  back,  or  haps  his  bare  head  : 

His  wee  hackit  heelies  are  hard  as  the  airn, 

An’  lithless  the  lair  o’  the  mitherless  bairn  ! 

Aneath  his  cauld  brow,  siccan  dreams  hover  there 
O’  hands  that  wont  kindly  to  kaim  his  dark  hair  ! 


17 


J 


The  Mitherless  Bairn . 


l9 


But  mornin’  brings  clutches,  a’  reckless  an’  stern, 
That  lo’e  na  the  locks  o’  the  mitherless  bairn  ! 

The  sister  wha  sang  o’er  his  saftly-rocked  bed 
Now  rests  in  the  mools  whare  their  mammie  is  laid ; 
While  the  father  toils  sair  his  wee  bannock  to  earn, 
An’  kens  na  the  wrangs  o’  his  mitherless  bairn. 

Her  spirit  that  passed  in  yon  hour  of  his  birth 
Still  watches  his  wearisome  wanderings  on  earth, 
Recording  in  heaven  the  blessings  they  earn 
Wha  couthilie  deal  wi’  the  mitherless  bairn  ! 

Oh  ! speak  him  na  harshly : he  trembles  the  while  ; 
He  bends  to  your  bidding,  and  blesses  your  smile. 

In  the  dark  hour  o’  anguish,  the  heartless  shall  learn 
That  God  deals  the  blow  for  the  mitherless  bairn  ! 


FROM  DAWN  TO  SUNSET. 


HIS  picture,  considered  by  many  Mr.  Faed’s  masterpiece,  belongs  to  the  very 
highest  order  of  works  in  what  may  be  called  the  naturalistic  school  of  con- 
temporary British  art.  It  is  a pictorial  embodiment  of  the  Seven  Ages  of 
Man  ; and  out  of  the  most  commonplace  materials,  wrought  with  marvellous 
skill,  the  artist  tells  a tale  as  deeply  pathetic  as  any  worthy  rendition  of  his  theme  must 
of  necessity  be.  The  scene  is  a cottage  interior,  depicted  with  the  most  absolute  fidelity. 
On  the  left  is  the  recessed  bed-place,  containing  the  box-becl,  common  in  the  houses  of 
the  Scottish  peasantry.  Lying  on  the  coverlet  we  see  the  shrunken,  withered  hand  of 
the  dying  grandmother,  a hand  which  seems  stiffening  in  death.  Her  daughter,  convulsed 
with  grief,  kneels  by  the  bedside,  her  head  buried  in  the  clothes.  The  son,  himself  a 
gray-haired  man,  sits  near,  a much-worn  Bible  in  his  hand,  in  which  his  finger  mechanic- 
ally keeps  the  place,  though  he  has  ceased  to  read,  and  is  lost  in  sorrowful  thought. 
His  wife  is  seated  by  the  cradle,  from  which  she  has  just  taken  her  infant  child.  Other 
children  are  playing  about  her  with  unwonted  quietness  ; while  one  gazes  at  the  bed  awe- 
struck, but  uncomprehending.  She  earnestly  hushes  the  noisy  entrance  of  her  eldest  boy, 
fresh  from  school  with  slate  and  satchel  in  his  hand,  who  bursts  into  the  room,  followed 
by  a still  older  sister  bringing  the  medicine  for  which  she  has  been  sent.  Thus  all  the 
ages  are  gathered  in  the  crowded  cottage  ; and  as  the  artist  expresses  it  in  the  motto  he 
has  taken  from  Tennyson,  “ So  runs  the  round  of  life  from  hour  to  hour.”  The  expres- 
sion throughout  is  most  forcible.  The  school-boy,  overflowing  with  life,  his  chin  buried 
in  an  enormous  comforter,  is  almost  comically  truthful,  and  gives  a gleam  of  humor  to  the 
work,  which  but  deepens  its  pathos.  The  comparative  unconcern  of  the  mother,  so  much 
more  occupied  with  the  young  lives  around  her  than  with  the  one  that  is  slowly  ebbing 
away,  is  as  true  as  it  is  touching.  The  interest,  however,  culminates  in  the  man,  so 
wonderfully  is  he  ennobled  and  elevated  by  a great  sorrow.  The  artist’s  triumph  is  the 
greater  in  that  he  has  given  dignity  to  the  sordid  actualities  of  the  lowliest  life  by  no 
factitious  prettiness  or  affectation,  but  merely  by  the  power  of  deep  human  feeling. 


21 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  CLAN. 


TOUCHING  story  is  here  told  of  the  last  small  remnant  of  a once  great 

and  powerful  clan.  An  emigrant  vessel  has  just  carried  away  to  the  Far 

West  the  strong  men  yet  able  to  make  a fortune ; and  on  the  jetty  are 

assembled,  with  many  outlying  kith  and  kin,  a feeble  old  man  and  his 

grand-daughter,  the  last  of  the  clan,  who  possess  not  a single  blade  of  grass  in  the  glen 
that  was  once  all  their  own.  They  are  before  us  as  they  might  be  seen  from  the  deck  of 
a ship  that  has  just  left  the  land.  A man  casts  off  the  mooring-rope  : thus  the  last  link 
between  those  who  go  and  those  who  stay  is  broken.  In  the  centre  is  the  tine  and 

pathetic  figure  of  the  old  man,  mounted  on  a gray  pony.  He  is  wrapped  in  a shepherd’s 

plaid ; and  his  bonnet  droops  above  his  mournfully  expressive  lace,  full  of  the  hopeless 
sorrow  of  the  aged.  By  his  side  is  his  grand-daughter,  who,  with  her  face  buried  in  her 
hands,  weeps  bitterly.  Near  them  are  the  more  distant  kinsfolk  of  those  who  go,  who, 
though  they  show  in  different  degrees  real  concern  and  sadness  for  their  departure,  have 
no  part  in  the  grief,  akin  to  despair,  which  is  felt  by  the  two  who  are  left  alone,  the 

last  of  a ruined  race.  Though  the  changes  which  were  wrought  in  the  last  century  in 

the  whole  system  of  life  in  the  Scottish  Highlands  were  brought  about  by  force,  this  only 
hastened  what  was  inevitable,  — the  passing-away  of  the  old  order  which  had  lingered  so 
long  amongst  those  misty  hills,  and  the  coming-in  of  the  new.  But  they  could  not  fail 
to  be  disastrous  to  the  fortunes  of  many,  making  a scene  like  this  the  only  too  possible 
ending  of  some  sad  family  history. 


23 


*1 


WAR  NEWS  TO  AN  OLD  SOLDIER. 


VETERAN  who  first  fought  under  Wellington  in  the  Mahratta  war,  who 
did  his  part  on  many  a hard-won  field  in  the  Peninsula,  and  was  amongst 

the  victors  at  Waterloo,  sits  in  his  arm-chair,  old  and  worn,  listening  while 

his  daughter  reads  to  him  from  “ The  Times  ” the  story  of  the  Indian 

mutiny  and  the  deeds  of  the  regiment  to  which  he  belonged  in  the  long-past  days  of  his 
youth  and  strength.  The  reader  leans  over  the  table  by  which  the  old  man  sits,  her 
face  lighted  by  the  reflections  from  the  paper  she  holds.  Her  expression,  as  well  as  that 
of  her  father,  is  excellently  rendered,  and  full  of  character.  The  young  woman’s  deep 
interest  contrasts  strongly  with  the  weary,  listless  air  of  the  old  soldier.  Her  husband  is 
probably  engaged  in  this  very  war,  exposed  to  a thousand  dangers  ; and  the  announcement 
of  his  fate  may  even  be  contained  in  the  intelligence  she  has  just  begun  to  read.  Her 
pretty  little  child  is  seated  on  the  old  man’s  knee,  and  amuses  himself  by  making  a soldier 

of  his  grandfather’s  thumb,  dressing  it  up  in  a scarlet  handkerchief.  A good  effect  of 

daylight  is  given  in  the  picture,  and  all  the  accessories  are  finished  with  the  artist’s  never- 
failing  care ; as,  for  examples,  the  trophies  of  Oriental  war  on  the  chimney-piece,  — an 
Indian  dagger  in  its  gay  velvet  sheath,  and  beside  it  a bayonet  ; the  carefully-preserved  India 
china  bowl  and  jar  ; and  the  tea-caddy  of  delicate  Eastern  workmanship.  As  the  old  soldier 
is  decorated  with  the  Waterloo  medal,  it  need  not  be  said  that  in  the  place  of  honor 
hangs  a picture  of  “ the  Duke.” 


2S 


I 


THE  POOR,  THE  POOR  MAN’S  FRIEND. 

IE  picture  shows  the  exterior  of  a fisherman’s  cottage,  and  its  owner  seated 
near  the  open  door  engaged  in  mending  a net,  a length  of  which  is  laid 
across  his  knees.  He  is  about  to  give  alms  to  a blind  beggar,  who  stands 
at  a little  distance,  but  for  whom  help  is  very  timidly  entreated  by  his 
“ leader,”  a pretty  little  fair-haired  girl,  who  has  ventured  nearer,  and  waits  bashfully 
expectant.  One  of  the  fisherman’s  children,  a sturdy  little  urchin,  with  his  hands  clasped 
about  his  father’s  arm,  gazes  with  a child’s  serious  inquisitiveness  at  the  forlorn  little 
lassie.  A younger  boy,  half  frightened  by  the  strange  faces,  runs  to  his  mother,  a 
comely  young  woman  who  is  watching  the  group  from  the  doorway.  Very  fine  is  the 
fisherman’s  expression,  in  which  a touch  of  true  Scottish  caution  is  mingled  with  a gen- 
erous kindliness  that  goes  far  beyond  his  means  to  give.  Face,  figure,  and  action  here 
are  equally  admirable.  The  garden  is  one  of  those  slovenly  enclosures,  in  which  debris 
of  every  sort  abounds,  such  as  are  usually  found  before  the  cottages  of  the  Scotch  fisher- 
folk.  The  story  is  told  very  simply  and  naturally ; and  the  artist  shows  his  accustomed 
facility  in  seizing  momentary  motions  and  flitting  shades  of  expression,  and  transferring 
them  with  wonderful  success  to  his  canvas.  The  execution  throughout  is  vigorous  and 
powerful,  and  the  picture  ranks  amongst  the  finest  of  the  artist’s  works. 


27 


MY  AIN  FIRESIDE. 


HE  artist  has  taken 
picture,  one  of  the 


Mrs.  Hamilton’s  well-known  verses 
most  pleasing  and  characteristic  of 


as  the  theme 
his  works. 


of  this 


I ha’e  seen  great  anes,  and  sat  in  great  ha’s, 

Mang  lords  and  fine  ladies  a’  cover’d  vvi’  braws ; 

At  feasts  made  for  princes,  wi’  princes  I’ve  been, 

Whare  the  grand  shine  o’  splendor  has  dazzled  my  een : 

But  a sight  sae  delightfu’,  I trow,  I ne’er  spied, 

As  the  bonnie  blythe  blink  o’  mine  ain  fireside. 

My  ain  fireside,  my  ain  fireside  : 

Oh  ! cheery’s  the  blink  o’  mine  ain  fireside. 

My  ain  fireside,  my  ain  fireside  : 

Oh  ! there’s  nought  to  compare  wi’  ane’s  ain  fireside. 


Ance  mair,  Gude  be  thanket,  round  my  ain  heartsome  ingle 
Wi’  the  friends  o’  my  youth  I cordially  mingle  : 

Nae  forms  to  compel  me  to  seem  wae  or  glad; 

I may  laugh  when  I’m  merry,  and  sigh  when  I’m  sad ; 

Nae  falsehood  to  dread,  and  nae  malice  to  fear, 

But  truth  to  delight  me,  and  friendship  to  cheer. 

Of  a’  roads  to  happiness  ever  were  tried, 

There’s  nane  half  so  sure  as  ane’s  ain  fireside. 

My  ain  fireside,  my  ain  fireside  : 

Oh  ! there’s  nought  to  compare  wi’  ane’s  ain  fireside. 

When  I draw  in  my  stool  on  my  cosey  hearthstane, 

My  heart  loups  sae  light,  I scarce  ken’t  for  my  ain  : 


29 


/ 


My  Ain  Fireside . 


Care’s  down  on  the  wind,  it  is  clean  out  o’  sight ; 

Past  troubles  they  seem  but  as  dreams  of  the  night ; 

I hear  but  kend  voices,  kend  faces  I see, 

And  mark  saft  affection  glent  fond  frae  ilk  e’e ; 

Nae  fleetchings  o’  flattery,  nae  boastings  of  pride ; 

’Tis  heart  speaks  to  heart  at  ane’s  ain  fireside. 

My  ain  fireside,  my  ain  fireside : 

Oh  ! there’s  nought  to  compare  wi’  ane’s  ain  fireside. 


ERIN,  FAREWELL! 


AMPBELL’S  well-known  verses  suggested  to  Mr.  Faed  his  theme,  and  he 
has  given  us  a picture  whose  beauty  and  pathos  are  fully  in  harmony  with 
the  spirit  of  the  poem.  The  artist’s  “ Poor  Exile  of  Erin  ” is  a young  peas- 
ant-girl of  the  better  class,  who  stands  waiting  for  the  vessel  that  is  to  bear 
her  away  from  her  native  land.  She  carries  a little  bundle,  probably  containing  her  most 
precious  possessions,  in  one  hand  ; while  in  the  other  she  holds  a sprig  of  shamrock.  The 
figure  is  graceful,  and  the  face  very  charming,  though  now  saddened  by  the  anguish  of 
a last  parting  from  every  thing  that  she  has  heretofore  held  dear. 

“ Erin,  my  country  ! though  sad  and  forsaken, 

In  dreams  I revisit  thy  sea-beaten  shore  ; 

But  alas  ! in  a far  foreign  land  I awaken, 

And  sigh  for  the  friends  who  can  meet  me  no  more  ! 

“Where  is  my  cabin-door  fast  by  the  wildwood? 

Sisters  and  sire  ! did  ye  weep  for  its  fall? 

Where  is  the  mother  that  looked  on  my  childhood? 

And  where  is  the  bosom-friend  dearer  than  all? 

Oh  my  sad  heart ! long  abandoned  by  pleasure, 

Why  did  it  dote  on  a fast-fading  treasure? 

Tears,  like  the  rain-drops,  may  fall  without  measure ; 

But  rapture  and  beauty  they  cannot  recall. 

“ Yet,  all  its  sad  recollection  suppressing, 

One  dying  wish  my  lone  bosom  can  draw : 

Erin  ! an  exile  bequeaths  thee  his  blessing  ! 

Land  of  my  forefathers  ! — Erin  go  bragh  ! 

Buried  and  cold  when  my  heart  stills  her  motion, 

Green  be  thy  fields,  sweetest  isle  of  the  ocean  ! 

And  thy  harp-striking  bards  sing  aloud  with  devotion, 

* Erin  mavournin  ! — Erin  go  bragh  ! ’ ” 


33 


Wm&ESm 


THE  FIRST  BREAK  IN  THE  FAMILY. 

“ Oho  ! drear  dawned  the  morning,  and  dark  lowered  the  sky, 

When  our  moorland  cottage  the  mail-coach  cam’  by ; 

And  grief  at  our  couthy  hame  made  his  first  ca’ 

When  that  coach  bore  our  bonnie  young  Willie  awa’. 


We  gazed  till  the  coach  faded  far  ower  the  moor, 

When  a rainbow  streamed  down  ower  our  old  cottage-door ; 

And  we  hailed  the  blest  omen,  as  Hope’s  happy  daw’, 

That  Heaven  would  shed  blessings  on  Willie  awa’.” 

HE  story  of  the  departure  is  graphically  and  circumstantially  told  in  the  pic- 
ture, illustrating  very  vividly  the  verses  quoted  above.  The  whole  family 
— from  the  grandmother  to  the  youngest  child  — have  come  out  of  the 
moorland  cottage  to  watch  the  departing  coach,  which  is  rapidly  disappear- 
ing in  the  distance.  The  expressions  of  the  different  members  of  the  group,  showing 
their  varying  sense  of  the  loss  they  have  sustained,  are  admirably  rendered.  Of  this 
work  Mr.  Palgrave  says,  “ It  is  an  art  of  small,  pleasant  surprises  that  Faed  gives  us  ; 
a little  point  of  wit  and  a little  touch  of  sentiment,  perhaps  set  off  as  in  the  1 First  Break 
in  the  Family  ’ by  the  contrasted  indifference  of  the  children  to  their  brother’s  removal, 
whilst  the  father  bears  the  boy’s  departure  with  shrewd  hopefulness.  Even  the  weather 
sympathizes  in  its  way,  and  repeats  by  clever  signs  the  varied  feelings  of  the  family,  — 
here  a gleam,  and  there  a shadow ; the  rainbow  on  one  hand,  and  the  shower  on  the 
other.” 


35 


( 


THE  REAPER. 


EW  of  Mr.  Faed’s  smaller  works  are  more  charming  than  this,  and  it  most 
fittingly  illustrates  one  of  the  sweetest  of  Wordsworth’s  lyric  poems. 


Behold  her,  single  in  the  field, 

Yon  solitary  Highland  lass, 

Reaping  and  singing  by  herself! 
Stop  here,  or  gently  pass  ! 

Alone  she  cuts  and  binds  the  grain, 
And  sings  a melancholy  strain. 

Oh,  listen  ! for  the  vale  profound 
Is  overflowing  with  the  sound. 


No  nightingale  did  ever  chant 
More  welcome  notes  to  weary  bands 
Of  travellers  in  some  shady  haunt 
Among  Arabian  sands ; 

A voice  so  thrilling  ne’er  was  heard 
In  spring-time  from  the  cuckoo-bird, 
Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas 
Among  the  farthest  Hebrides. 


Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings? 
Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 
For  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things, 

And  battles  long  ago. 

Or  is  it  some  more  humble  lay, 
Familiar  matter  of  to-day? 

Some  natural  sorrow,  loss,  or  pain, 
That  has  been,  and  may  be  again? 


37 


39 


The  Reaper. 

Whate’er  the  theme,  the  maiden  sang 
As  if  her  song  could  have  no  ending. 
I saw  her  singing  at  her  work, 

And  o’er  the  sickle  bending : 

I listened  motionless  and  still ; 

And,  as  I mounted  up  the  hill, 

The  music  in  my  heart  I bore 
Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more. 


SUNDAY  AFTERNOON. 

COTTAGE  exterior  such  as  Mr.  Faed  has  so  often  painted,  but  with  the 
difference  that  here  the  quietness  and  peace  of  the  day  of  rest  seem  brood- 
ing over  every  thing  animate  and  inanimate.  The  influence  of  the  time  is 
even  felt  by  the  little  restless  child  that  stands  so  quietly  by  the  young 
sits  lost  in  thought,  the  Bible  she  has  been  reading  lying  in  her  lap.  The 
artist  selected  lines  from  his  countryman  Grahame’s  poem,  “ The  Sabbath,”  as  the  motto 
of  this  picture ; and  most  admirably  do  the  works  of  the  painter  and  the  poet  here 
harmonize. 

Mute  is  the  voice  of  rural  labor ; hushed 

The  ploughboy’s  whistle  and  the  milkmaid’s  song. 

The  scythe  lies  glittering  in  the  dewy  wreath 
Of  tedded  grass,  mingled  with  fading  flowers 
That  yester-morn  bloomed  waving  in  the  breeze. 

Calmness  seems  throned  on  yon  unmoving  cloud. 

To  him  who  wanders  o’er  the  upland  leas 

The  black-bird’s  note  comes  mellower  from  the  dale, 

And  sweeter  from  the  sky  the  gladsome  lark 
Warbles  his  heaven-tuned  song;  the  lulling  brook 
Murmurs  more  gently  down  the  deep-sunk  glen. 

With  dove-like  wings  Peace  o’er  yon  village  broods : 

The  dizzying  mill-wheel  rests ; the  anvil’s  din 
Hath  ceased  : all,  all  around  is  quietness. 

Less  fearful  on  this  day,  the  limping  hare 

Stops,  and  looks  back,  and  stops,  and  looks  on  man, 

Her  deadliest  foe.  The  toil-worn  horse,  set  free, 

Unheedful  of  the  pasture,  roams  at  large. 

But  chiefly  man  the  day  of  rest  enjoys. 

Hail,  Sabbath  ! thee  I hail,  the  poor  man’s  day. 


mother,  who 


41 


I 


Sunday  Afternoon. 


43 


On  other  days  the  man  of  toil  is  doomed 
To  eat  his  joyless  bread  lonely,  the  ground 
Both  seat  and  board,  screened  from  the  winter’s  cold 
And  summer’s  heat  by  neighboring  hedge  or  tree  : 
But  on  this  day,  imbosomed  in  his  home, 

He  shares  the  frugal  meal  with  those  he  loves ; 

With  those  he  loves  he  shares  the  heartfelt  joy 
Of  giving  thanks  to  God,  — not  thanks  of  form, 

A word  and  a grimace,  but  reverently, 

With  covered  face  and  upward  earnest  eye. 

O Scotland  ! much  I love  thy  tranquil  dales ; 

But  most  on  Sabbath  eve,  when  low  the  sun 
Slants  through  the  upland  copse,  ’tis  my  delight, 
Wandering  and  stopping  oft,  to  hear  the  song 
Of  kindred  praise  arise  from  humble  roofs. 


My  devious  range,  till,  sunk  from  view,  the  sun 
Emblaze  with  upward-slanting  ray  the  breast 
And  wing  unquivering  of  the  wheeling  lark, 
Descending  vocal  from  her  latest  flight ; 

While,  disregardful  of  yon  lonely  star,  — 

The  harbinger  of  chill  night’s  glittering  host,  — 
Sweet  redbreast,  Scotia’s  Philomela,  chants 
In  desultory  strains  his  evening-hymn. 


Oft,  musing,  I prolong  . 


TRAIN  UP  A CHILD. 


E are  here  again  shown  one  of  those  cottage  interiors,  which  all  who  are 
familiar  with  Faed’s  works  learn  to  know  so  '(veil.  The  father  sits  by  the 
window,  and  the  little  girl  who  is  being  trained  in  the  way  she  should  go 
is  learning  to  sew  on  a button  to  the  wrist  of  his  shirt.  With  tightly-com- 
pressed lips,  and  a face  full  of  the  consciousness  of  the  immense  responsibility  and  im- 
portance of  the  task  she  has  undertaken,  she  goes  to  work.  The  father  watches  the 
progress  made  by  the  little  seamstress  with  a tenderness  of  manner  that  contrasts  pleas- 
antly with  his  rough  exterior  and  coarse  laboring  garb  ; while  the  mother,  for  a moment, 
stays  her  own  busy  needle  to  see  that  all  goes  well.  The  baby  boy,  thus  left  to  his 
own  devices,  of  course  takes  possession  of  the  work-box,  and  very  quietly,  but  most 
effectually,  is  making  havoc  of  its  contents.  The  picture  is  a pleasantly  realistic  one,  and 
tells  its  own  story  plainly,  but  effectively.  In  the  class  of  artists  who  deal  with  domestic 

scenes  like  this,  Mr.  Faed  is  unequalled.  The  careful  study  given  to  all  the  accessories 

of  this  work  adds  greatly  to  its  value.  The  most  striking  of  these,  perhaps,  to  an  un- 
accustomed eye,  is  the  box-bed,  not  unlike  a ship’s  berth  in  appearance,  which  is  partially 
concealed  by  curtains:  in  the  Flighlands  it  would  be  shut  in  by  wooden  doors.  The 
heavy,  rough-hewn  chair,  standing  near,  looks  as  though  it  might  have  been  used  by 
generations  of  cottagers.  Everywhere  is  the  picturesque  disorder  so  characteristic  of  a 
Scotch  cottage,  and  which  is  undeniably  effective  for  artistic  uses. 


45 


BAITH  FAITHER  AND  MITHER. 


LINE  taken  from  one  of  James  Ballantine’s  genuinely  Scottish  lyrics, — 

“ He  was  faither  and  mither  and  all  things  to  me,”  — 

gives  the  artist  his  subject.  He  introduces  us  to  the  work-room  of  the 

village  cobbler,  who,  seated  on  his  bench  by  the  window,  holds  his  motherless  darling,  a 
pretty,  fair-hairecl  lassie,  between  his  knees,  while  he  puts  on  her  gloves,  and  makes  her 
ready  for  school.  A group  of  neighbors’  children  are  waiting  for  their  little  playmate; 
and,  pleasing  as  are  all  Faed’s  children’s  faces,  we  doubt  if  he  has  ever  given  us  any 

more  charmingly  natural  and  winning  than  these.  Admirably  rendered,  too,  is  the  expres- 

sion of  the  cobbler  in  its  mingled  kindliness  and  shrewdness.  We  feel  sure  that  he  is 
somewhat  of  a village  oracle,  with  a true  Scotchman’s  resolute  and  well-defined  opinions 
on  most  matters  in  Church  and  State ; and  that  the  few  volumes  composing  the  small 
library  on  the  hanging  book-shelf  have  been  often  read,  and  well  thought  over  afterward. 
The  picture  is  full  of  interest,  and,  in  vigor  of  execution  and  masterly  delineation  of 
character,  takes  high  rank  among  the  artist’s  works. 


47 


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MUSIC  HATH  CHARMS. 


UCH  is  the  happily-chosen  title  given  by  the  artist  to  one  of  the  most 
pleasing  and  universally  popular  of  his  works.  As  usual,  he  deals  with 
cottage  life ; and  he  shows  us  a lovely  young  peasant-girl  standing  at  an 
open  door,  and  listening  while  her  little  brother  brings  “ music  ” out  of  a 
reed-pipe,  — a melody  which,  however  rude  it  may  be,  is  very  pleasant  to  her  ear,  as  it  is 
to  that  of  the  household  dog  who  looks  up  approvingly  into  the  boy’s  face.  The  com- 
plete absorption  of  the  young  musician  in  his  own  performance  shows  a true  love  ot  his 
art ; and  he  will  scarcely  content  himself  long  with  the  simple  instrument  on  which  he  is 
now  playing,  but  will  soon  aspire  to  the  bagpipe,  dear  to  Highland  hearts,  and  in  time, 
perhaps,  his  fame  may  be  known  in  all  the  country  round.  So  at  least  the  laddie 
dreams  ; and  his  admiring  sister  has,  we  may  be  sure,  no  doubt  whatever  on  the  subject, 
but  pictures  him  in  the  distant  future  as  clad  in  the  “ garb  of  old  Gaul,”  and  playing  a 
pibroch  at  the  head  of  some  Highland  regiment ; or  (who  knows  ?)  he  may  even  achieve 
the  glorious  distinction  of  being  my  lord’s  own  piper.  Every  thing  seems  possible  as  she 
listens  to  the  music  in  the  pleasant  summer-weather 


49 


THE  OFFER. 


Where  is  another  sweet  as  my  sweet, 

Fine  of  the  fine,  and  shy  of  the  shy? 

Fine  little  hands,  fine  little  feet, 

Dewy  blue  eye. 

Shall  I write  to  her?  shall  I go? 

Ask  her  to  marry  me  by  and  by? 

Somebody  said  that  she’d  say  no ; 

Somebody  knows  that  she’ll  say  ay  ! 

Ay  or  no,  if  asked  to  her  face? 

Ay  or  no,  from  shy  of  the  shy? 

Go  little  letter,  apace,  apace  ! 

Fly  ! — 

Fly  to  the  light  in  the  valley  below ; 

Tell  my  wish  to  her  dewy  blue  eye. 

Somebody  said  that  she’d  say  no  ; 

Somebody  knows  that  she’ll  say  ay  ! 

YOUNG  girl  — of  a different  class  from  those  usually  painted  by  Mr.  Faecl, 
evidently  the  daughter  of  a thriving  tradesman  in  some  country  town  — 
stands  alone  by  the  fire  in  her  little  parlor,  reading  the  momentous  letter 
which  gives  the  title  to  the  picture.  She  has  a thoughtful,  sensitive  face  ; 
and  the  serious  intentness  with  which  she  reads  the  words,  which  she  evidently  finds  far 
from  unpleasing,  is  admirably  rendered  by  the  artist. 


✓' 


1 


ACCEPTED. 

there  have  been  feelings  of  doubt  or  hesitation  as  to  the  answer  to  be 
sent  to  a certain  letter,  no  traces  of  them  are  now  visible  in  the  happy  face 
of  the  young  girl  who  stands  in  a room  opening  from  her  father’s  shop, 
leaning  upon  her  improvised  writing-desk,  — a tea-chest  placed  upon  an 
empty  packing-case.  She  is  secure  from  interruption  for  a time,  as  her  father  is  occu- 
pied in  attending  to  the  wants  of  an  important  customer,  — probably  the  great  lady  of 
the  neighborhood,  — who  has  just  come  into  the  shop,  followed  by  a black  footman,  and 
whose  carriage  we  see  waiting  outside  the  open  door.  The  lovely  letter-writer  has  pro- 
ceeded as  far  in  her  all-important  task  as  “ I take  this  opportunity','  — the  conventional 
beginning,  possibly,  of  every  one  of  the  not  very  numerous  epistles  she  has  ever  written. 
She  pauses  for  a moment,  feeling,  for  the  first  time,  somewhat  dissatisfied  with  her  usual 
formula ; and  we  can  feel  sure  that  lonor  before  the  letter  is  ended  all  stiffness  and  con- 
straint  will  have  disappeared  from  it,  and  it  will  have  become  as  charmingly  unaffected 
and  natural  as  the  writer  herself. 


53 


HAPPY  AS  THE  DAY  IS  LONG. 


“Ne’er  trow  ye  wealth  is  happy  aye,  or  poverty  aye  wae ; 

Ne’er  hope  to  find  the  brichtest  flowers  aye  on  the  highest  brae  : 

In  humble  hames  are  happy  hearts,  in  dells  are  flow’rets  fair; 

Around  the  muirland  lammie  plays  the  balmy  summer  air. 

And  He  wha  tends  the  lammie  keeps  us  a’  aneath  his  ee ; 

The  balance  aye  is  fairly  poised  atween  the  low  and  hie.” 

E know  of  no  work  of  the  artist  of  this  class  that  is  more  thoroughly  charm- 
ing, or,  despite  its  realism,  fuller  of  simple  poetry,  than  this.  Mr.  Faed  is 
always  peculiarly  fortunate  in  his  choice  of  titles  ; and  “ Happy  as  the  Day 
is  Long”  forms  no  exception  to  the  rule.  In  the  pleasant  warmth  and 
sunlight  of  one  of  the  long  clays  of  a Scottish  midsummer,  a young  mother  — one  of  the 
brightest  and  bonniest  of  the  whole  series  of  comely  cottagers  he  has  given  us  — sits 
sewing  on  a bench  outside  her  door.  In  the  grass  at  her  feet  her  little  child  is  playing 
with  a kitten,  and  through  the  open  door  we  see  the  baby  asleep  in  its  cradle.  The 
picture  is  full  of  genuine  sentiment  without  being  in  the  least  sentimentalized,  and  will 
at  once  win  its  way  to  all  hearts. 


55 


A WEE  BIT  FRACTIOUS. 

HE  artist  tells  his  story  here  so  plainly  and  sympathetically,  that  little  com- 
ment is  needed.  The  young  mother  has  taken  the  child,  who  is  “ a wee 
bit  fractious,”  into  her  lap,  and,  with  infinite  patience  and  tenderness, 
strives  to  hush  his  complaining  cries,  soothe  his  fretfulness,  and  bring  back 
his  good-humor.  The  much-used  picture-book  has  been  tried  in  vain,  and  lies  neglected 
on  the  floor.  A dog,  sorely  puzzled  by  his  little  playfellow’s  ill-temper,  sits  patiently  by. 
The  background  is  a cottage  interior  ; and  all  the  details  show  the  careful  study  which  is 
never  wanting  in  Mr.  Faed’s  works.  The  picture  is  a thoroughly  pleasing  one ; and  it  is 
so  simply  naturalistic  in  style,  and  appeals  so  directly  to  the  heart,  that  it  is  sure  of  win- 
ning a high  place  in  the  popular  favor. 


57 


THE  MILLER’S  DAUGHTER. 


j|HE  artist  takes  the  heroine  of  Tennyson’s  charming  poem  as  the  subject  of 
this  picture,  — one  of  the  earliest,  we  believe,  of  his  works,  — and  shows  us  a 
graceful,  rustic  beauty,  of  a type  altogether  different  from  those  he  has  since 
given  us.  The  head  is  very  much  after  the  manner  of  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence, 
and  might  easily  be  mistaken  for  one  of  his  portraits.  The  pleasing  pastoral  character  of 
the  picture  harmonizes  well  with  the  poet’s  verses : — 


But,  Alice,  what  an  hour  was  that, 

When,  after  roving  in  the  woods, 
(’Twas  April  then,)  I came  and  sat 
Below  the  chestnuts,  when  their  buds 
Were  glistening  to  the  breezy  blue  ! 

And  on  the  slope,  an  absent  fool, 

I cast  me  down,  nor  thought  of  you, 

But  angled  in  the  higher  pool. 

A love-song  I had  somewhere  read, 

An  echo  from  a measured  strain, 

Beat  time  to  nothing  in  my  head 
From  some  odd  corner  of  the  brain  : 

It  haunted  me  the  morning  long, 

With  weary  sameness  in  the  rhymes,  — 
The  phantom  of  a silent  song, 

That  went  and  came  a thousand  times. 

Then  leapt  a trout.  In  lazy  mood 
I watched  the  little  circles  die  : 


5 > 


The  Miller  s Daughter, 

They  passed  into  the  level  flood, 

And  there  a vision  caught  my  eye, — 

The  reflex  of  a beauteous  form, 

A glowing  arm,  a gleaming  neck, 

As  when  a sunbeam  wavers  warm 
Within  the  dark  and  dimpled  beck. 

For  you  remember,  you  had  set, 

That  morning,  on  the  casement-edge, 

A long  green  box  of  mignonette, 

And  you  were  leaning  from  the  ledge ; 

And,  when  I raised  my  eyes,  above 

They  met  with  two  so  full  and  bright ! — 
Such  eyes  ! I swear  to  you,  my  love, 

That  these  have  never  lost  their  light. 


I loved  the  brimming  wave  that  swam 
Through  quiet  meadows  round  the  mill ; 

The  sleepy  pool  above  the  dam, 

The  pool  beneath  it  never  still ; 

The  meal-sacks  on  the  whitened  floor ; 

The  dark  round  of  the  dripping  wheel; 

The  very  air  about  the  door 

Made  misty  with  the  floating  meal. 

But  when  at  last  I dared  to  speak  — 

The  lanes,  you  know,  were  white  with  May 

Your  ripe  lips  moved  not,  but  your  cheek 
Flushed  like  the  coming  of  the  day. 

And  so  it  was  : half  sly,  half  shy, 

You  would,  and  would  not,  little  one  ! 

Although  I pleaded  tenderly, 

And  you  and  I were  all  alone. 

And,  now  those  vivid  hours  are  gone, 

Like  mine  own  life  to  me  thou  art, 

Where  Past  and  Present,  wound  in  one, 

Do  make  a garland  for  the  heart. 

So  sing  that  other  song  I made, 

Half  angered  with  my  happy  lot, 

The  day  when  in  the  chestnut  shade 
I found  the  blue  forget-me-not. 


( 


THE  ORANGE-GIRL. 


HIS  picture  of  a London  street-seller  is  both  pleasing  and  full  of  character. 
The  artist  shows  us  a blooming  young  Irish  girl,  with  much  beauty  of  a 
distinctively  national  type,  standing  at  a corner  with  her  basket  of  fruit  on 
her  head.  Her  cry  of  “ Sweet  Chany  Or-r-ranges  ” has,  with  slight  varia- 
tion, been  heard  in  London  streets  for  nearly  three  hundred  years.  Beginning  in  the 
latter  part  of  Elizabeth’s  reign,  the  street  sale  of  the  fruit  increased  so  rapidly,  that,  as 
early  as  the  year  1607,  Ben  Jonson  declares  that  the  “orange-wives”  have  become  as 
noisy  as  the  “ fish-wives.”  Orange-girls  abounded  in  the  city  in  the  time  of  Charles  II. ; 
and  “Mistress  Nelly’s”  beauty  first  attracted  all  eyes  as  she  sold  her  fruit  in  the  theatres. 
To  disguise  themselves  as  orange-girls  was  the  first  expedient  that  occurred  to  the  lovely 
Frances  Jennings  and  her  friend,  when  they  wished  to  visit  secretly  an  astrologer  in  the 
city.  With  what  humor  Grammont  relates  the  story  of  their  escapade,  their  discovery, 
and  the  agony  of  fright  and  mortification  they  suffered  thereby  ! “ What  mad  freaks  the 

Maids  of  Honor  at  Court  have,”  writes  Bepys,  whom  such  a delightful  bit  of  gossip  could 
not  escape  : “ that  Mrs.  Jennings,  one  of  the  Duchess’s  maids,  the  other  day,  dressed 
herself  like  an  orange-wench,  and  went  up  and  down  and  cried  ‘ Oranges,’  till,  by  some 
accident,  her  fine  shoes  were  discovered,  and  she  put  to  a great  deal  of  shame.” 

Very  hard  and  prosaic  is  the  life  of  the  London  orange-girl  of  to-day.  The  street 
trade  is  almost  entirely  in  the  hands  of  the  Irish  ; and  the  business  is  looked  down  upon 
by  the  London  costermonger,  who  calls  the  orange  season  “ the  Irishman’s  harvest.”  At 
that  time  of  the  year  there  are  thousands  of  these  itinerant  venders  in  the  great  city, 
from  among  whom  the  artist  has  found  his  comely  model. 

65 


/ 


( 


WORN  OUT. 


POOR  carpenter,  already  wearied  with  the  hard  toil  of  the  day,  has  been 
watching  all  night  beside  the  bed  of  his  sick  child.  At  length,  after  hours 
of  restless  wakefulness,  the  little  sufferer  has  fallen  asleep  ; and,  as  the  light 
of  early  morning  begins  to  come  in  through  the  small  window,  it  shows 
that  the  father,  too,  is  sleeping  in  his  chair  by  the  bedside,  utterly  “worn  out.”  The  artist 
tells  the  story  circumstantially,  and  with  a pathetic  truthfulness.  The  poor  appointments 
of  the  garret,  which  is  the  home  of  father  and  child,  are  faithfully  rendered ; and  very 
touching  are  the  evidences  shown  of  the  father’s  tender,  self-forgetful  care  of  his  sick 
boy,  — as  in  the  carefully-shaded  candle-light,  the  rug  laid  to  keep  out  the  chill  draught 
of  air  from  under  the  loose,  ill-fitting  door,  and  the  coat  added  to  the  scanty  bed- 
coverings.  It  is  in  works  like  these,  depicting  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  the  humblest  life, 
that  Mr.  Faed  stands  pre-eminent.  No  living  artist  has  more  sympathetically,  more 
tenderly,  or  with  truer  pathos,  treated  themes  drawn  from 

“The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor.” 


67 


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